


Roads Lead to Rome

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Choose Your Own Adventure, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How in the world is he supposed to control the treacherous directions his thoughts take when on his worst day all Jack has to do is smile, and Bitty’s gone?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bitty

**Author's Note:**

> i stumbled across [this delight](http://perfectmale.tumblr.com/post/99305264557) and immediately shared with kinsey that i'd found an exact body double for jack. as things tend to, they spiraled from there, and i promised kinsey a fic in which bitty is so hot and bothered by jack that he has to leave in the middle of practice to take care of business.
> 
> this is is dedicated to [kinsey,](http://dadbobzimmermann.tumblr.com) my road trip buddy on this highway to hell.
> 
> special thanks to my diligent, thorough, and just tremendously talented beta [chloe.](http://ziimbits.tumblr.com)

They’re doing weight training today because God heard Bitty’s prayers. God heard them, laughed, and said, “Eric Richard Bittle, you made Holster weep when you taught the team Coach’s suicide sprints. You’re going to lift weights, and you’re going to grin and bear it.”

Jack had caught onto the fact that Eric’s legs are stronger than they look earlier on in the game than Hall or Murray and had nipped his old routine in the bud. Gone were his comfortable reps of leg presses and calf raises — only permissible as warmups under Jack’s new regime — and in their place were the kinds of upper body exercises he’d thought he’d left behind once he gave up on pairs skating for good.

“Need a knee up, Bits?” Holster offers with a saccharine smile while Bitty eyes the pull-up bar. He’s not allowed to use the pull-down machine because he has to adjust the settings to such different specifications that everyone else on the team, but no one seems to care that the machine can be adjusted while Bitty can’t make himself tall enough for the bar.

“I dunno, I don’t want you to pull that stitch in your side from yesterday,” he grins back at Holster just as innocently until Ransom comes to collect his crying child. Holster leaves Bitty with a withering glare, but given that Bitty probably could have used the help, he’s not sure who won this round.

“It totally counts as a deadlift if I boost Bitty up to the bar,” Nursey insists, strolling into the weight room with Chowder following at a nervous clip. Dex is carrying three clean rags, trailing in after the others, the whites of his eyes already apparent with the intensity of his frustration.

Jack and Shitty are the last in, which isn’t ideal because Bitty really doesn’t enjoy having the object of his pathetically unrequited crush watch while he tries to find the most stackable things in the room to make a little stool.

“If you’re only lifting Bittle’s body weight in a single rep, we should see about trading you to the lacrosse team.”

While the team laughs at Nursey’s expense, Bitty preps on the balls of his feet, letting his own potential energy tighten the muscles in his legs like a pair of springs. There’s no question that Bitty will be able to jump high enough. He has his gloves on, and the floor is padded, so the worst that could happen if he loses his grip and falls is that Nursey won’t be the most embarrassed person in the room.

He’s about to spring up when Jack places a hand on each hip and hoists him in the air like a ragdoll.

“You could dislocate your shoulder doing that,” Jack says mildly, and if it were anyone but Jack, it would sound like friendly concern. Because it’s Jack, though, and because Bitty is a hopeless romantic, he sounds protective and proprietary. His thumbs pet the glossy fabric of Eric’s shorts absently, just catching the slope of his hipbone on each pass.

Jack’s cheek twitches with a measured smirk, and he says, “I can do this for a while, but you can grab the bar whenever you want.”

“Yeah, well, when you can do resistance training with your body weight, you can talk then, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Bitty grabs on and channels his fluttery, nervous energy into his pull-ups, and disguises his tiny, wistful sigh as Jack lets go of him as a huff of air.

“Maybe another time,” Jack says. “I’m taking a page out of your book today.”

“Pecan pie is my favorite,” Bitty grunts through his pull-up, “but if you’re not gonna say it right, I’d rather you didn’t make it at all.”

Chowder usually spots Shitty while he does his bench presses because they lift about the same, and then they’ll swap; it just doesn’t ever seem to go as well for Chowder. His arms are beginning to tremble with the strain of the last set, but Shitty’s too busy trying to contort himself so his foot can reach to tap Bitty’s toe in a makeshift high five.

“Fuckin’ smoked him.”

“If we don’t have a goalie on Friday because you let the barbell crush Chowder, I’m personally delivering you to Mrs. Chow,” Dex snaps from behind the other bench.

“Shit, Chow, you gotta say something, you beautiful bastard!”

“I probably would have been fine!” Chowder insists hotly, waving off Shitty’s officious hands now that he’s been relieved of the barbell.

Bitty can’t help but notice as he drops lightly to his feet, shaking out his hands and arms before rolling his shoulders, that he’s finished his first set before Jack’s even started. It’s not the kind of thing that happens every day, so he breezes by the leg press Jack’s adjusting on his way to the butterfly machine.

“I haven’t used the leg press in over a year,” Bitty observes, setting up for his own chest flies.

His breath catches when Jack reclines against the padded back and braces his feet against the sled. Just like everyone else on the team, he’s dressed to work out. While the other guys seem to have finally gotten the memo about dressing like the boys who used to kick Bitty’s chair during sex ed., Jack wears the compression gear he favors for games.

Jack folds himself in half right in front of Bitty’s eyes, thighs pressing all along his torso, and the snug black fabric that shadows every divot slides at the hem to reveal dizzying snatches of muscles and skin. There are so many layers of him that Eric’s overwhelmed trying to understand just how he’s managed to get himself zig-zagged back-thighs-calves. Honestly, Bitty had thought he was the flexible one on the team.

Ransom grunts, “He’s jealous of your bangin’ booty, bro.”

“Fifteen,”

“Fuck you, Holtzy, I was at twenty!”

“I took off five. I figured if you had enough energy to chirp Jack, you’ve been holding back,”

“Bitty, your dad’s suicides fucking broke him,” Ransom bites off, powering through his extra presses with poor humor.

Holster starts back at fifteen again with a vindictive laugh and says, “I’m gonna bring you down with me, bro. Sixteen.”

Bitty snickers and starts on his chest flies, ignoring the way his heart’s already fluttering like a bird’s wings when he hasn’t done much more than warm up yet.

“He’s not totally wrong,” Jack says with downright offensive ease, straightening his legs.

Eric accidentally lets the weights slam to the ground, their clattering adding to the din of the room and the impact setting his teeth to rattling.

“Pardon?”

Jack’s rhythm on the leg press is smooth and controlled, and the flex of his thighs, only half covered by his shorts, comes into high relief as he lowers the sled gradually on its incline. Without entirely meaning to, Bitty picks back up on his machine, meeting Jack’s pace.

“Your squats have been paying off, and it’s been ages since I took day just to work on my lower body.”

“You’re chirping me, right?” Bitty huffs. “You’re just —”

“You’ve put on a lot of mass since New Year’s, Bittle. You’re an inspiration.”

It cannot possibly mean what it sounds like — that Jack’s noticed the slow-but-steady progress of Bitty’s hockey butt. That Jack’s been looking at Bitty’s butt enough that he’s noticed the difference a few months’ squats with Ransom have made. Obviously, Bitty’s noticed that his pants fit a little more snugly in the hips and thighs, but they do still fit.

He hasn’t been keeping count, but he figures he’s probably done enough to constitute a full set, so he eases his arms into his lap and collects his thoughts. Pressing his water bottle to the back of his neck and letting the condensation trick him into feeling less like a sweaty disaster helps a little, but not enough that he can tear his eyes away from Jack.

He’s never, never had problems staring at boys in the locker room. He’s always been too afraid of the consequences to make eye contact with anyone before he came to Samwell. Now that he’s here, these boys are so like his family that getting hot and bothered about them is as much a non-issue as going for dips in the lake with his cousins is back at home.

Eric’s always been proud that none of his teammates have ever had to worry about him peeking while they’re getting dressed, even if Rans and Holster both seemed mortally offended when they learned he hadn’t. He loves being able to hold his chin up with dignity whenever the ESPN anchors that look like Coach talk about the problems with having a gay kid on the team.

The thing here, though, is that Jack’s not even doing anything provocative. He’s wearing what he always wears to training, and if he’s shifting up his routine, he has good reason. Jack can’t help that when he pulls his legs in he looks like he’s waiting for someone (Eric) to come between his legs and put their (Eric’s) shoulders under his knees. It’s the way the machine is designed to operate that has Jack perfectly poised to have fingers (belonging to Eric) work him gently open until he’s relaxed enough to bottom with his legs sandwiched between his chest and Eric’s (Eric’s, Eric’s.)

Jack had brought up Bitty’s butt, in Bitty’s own flimsy defense, but how much of a surprise would it really be to learn that Jack was evaluating his training progress even outside the parameters of the C?

It wouldn’t be one. Not at all. Jack was just being the great captain he’s always been, managing to tease Bitty in the process; in return, Eric Bittle has become every straight athlete’s worst nightmare. Wonderful.

He’s so embarrassed that he powers through the rest of his sets without noticing that Jack’s moved on to his next station. He manages to think only twice about the fact that it’s the first time he’s ever imagined himself topping.

Bitty’s small, so he always assumed when he got around to having sex with someone else, he would be on the receiving end. It’s not something he’s opposed to, and he’s definitely come to the conclusion on his own through extensive research that he likes being filled up. Still, he’s never even thought about what it would be like to slip inside someone, and if that someone were as beautiful as Jack —

It’s in his best interest, he decides, to get his weights and kneel behind the preacher bench until he’s better able to control the sudden, pointed aim of his aimless thoughts.

The dumbbells are marked with his name. No one talks about it anymore, but when the tadpoles had come on their tour, they’d asked why some girl named “E. Bittle” kept her things in the men’s weight room, and Bitty’d wanted to crawl into his locker.

Eric leans over the bench, both arms extended with a weight in each hand, and hopes the procedure will help him clear his thoughts.

Trying not to think about something only makes it more difficult to stop thinking about the thing. He’d learned that his first week in the Haus when Shitty’s bait and tackle were on full display so often that Bitty couldn’t look at him without imagining the freckle on his left adductor and the surprising coppery sheen of his pubic hair.

It would only be an exercise in self-flagellation for Bitty not to think about Jack doing deadlifts on the other side of the room, laughing, finally a little winded, at Nursey’s losing battle with the cable machine.

It’s not like Eric’s intentionally having impure thoughts about his captain. He’s not ogling him or propositioning him. He should cut himself some slack; it’s what a person does about their unpleasant thoughts that shows their character.

That sounds like it’s probably true. Shitty might’ve said it before.

His curls stretch new and exciting muscles in his arms, adding to the chorus of minor complaints he can feel just starting to burn throughout his upper body. In about six hours he’ll be cursing the day he found Samwell University on a list of LGBT friendly schools, but another six hours after that will probably have him feeling blissfully achy and ready to sink into his bed.

This is when Jack decides to do his weighted lunges across the room, headed straight for Bitty.

He can only stop for a moment to be thankful that he’s got the view he has from this angle, because it’s bad enough that he’s at eye level with the broad expanse of Jack’s quads as he sinks almost to one knee, face focused, chin tucked tightly against his collar. He’s finally gotten to the point of his workout where he’s starting to show the effort, cheeks vibrant and his chest moving deeply with steady breaths.

If Bitty had seen this act from behind, there’d have been nothing left of him to bury at the funeral.

“You’ll be holding your own in the scrum in no time, eh?” Jack coughs, letting the barbell fall to the floor with a shuddering thud. Bitty’s close enough to see that Jack’s legs are quivering while he adjusts the Roman chair for his height.

“Back extensions are upper body,” Bitty mutters blithely, focusing with uncharacteristic intensity on what number comes after eighteen. He didn’t do great in calc, but he’d squeaked by with a C. He thinks that probably qualifies him to count into the double digits.

Jack climbs right on up onto the chair, draping his abdomen over the cushion. It’s pure coincidence that Bitty finishes his first set and lets his weights roll to the floor at the same moment Jack secures his heels. Eric flexes and releases his arms, disguising his distraction as a little scowl, and Jack smirks over his shoulder.

“Compound exercise, Bittle. They work the glutes, too.”

And, well, yes. Bitty can see that for himself, because the universe is proving again that it isn’t an impartial observer. Some quirk of fate put his bench at an excellent perspective to observe Jack’s form for his extensions, and it’s as perfect as every other physical part of him.

How in the world is he supposed to control the treacherous directions his thoughts take when on his worst day all Jack has to do is smile, and Bitty’s gone?

Bitty hears Jack call through two closed doors to turn out his lights and go to bed, and he resignedly rifles through his bottom drawer for lube and tissues. Jack skates toward him and throws their bodies across the rink; instead of collapsing to the ice, Bitty sinks into him and clutches on for as long as he can get away with it. They clear dishes from the table, Jack drying as Bitty washes, and he has to coach himself not to drop his plates and throw his arms around Jack’s neck.

The taut pull of Jack’s hamstrings as he bows forward, angled as if to give Eric the best view possible on purpose, is just not. Fair.

The only factor in Bitty’s favor is the preacher bench, which does a beautiful job concealing the way he’s getting hard in his shorts from the rest of the boys. It’ll only be a matter of time at this rate before he’s able to drill through to the other side, but for now he’s safe.

Now being the fleeting period between Jack’s forward dip and the low, gravelly groan that resonates through his chest as he rights himself.

“’Scuse me!” Eric squeaks, making a break for the locker room. He has to pass Jack on his way, coming dangerously close to the tight slopes of his body and tries valiantly to ignore the way his basking-merperson pose stretches the clingy fabric of his t-shirt across his back. Unfortunately, that means meeting Jack’s concerned eye before he bolts like a jackrabbit through the door.

He’s mortified — humiliated to the core that this is even happening to him, but it doesn’t stop him from slamming the toilet stall shut and locking it with trembling fingers behind him and tearing off his lifting gloves with his teeth. He shoves his waistband down to the middle of his thighs, whining through bitten lips when it skims the slippery head of his cock.

Eric is the kind of boy who likes to take things slow when he can. He’s passed as much as half of some nights with his right hand in a loose, slick fist while the fingertips of his left skip across the sensitive zones of his body. When he feels his belly clench and his toes curl, he’ll ease up so he’s barely even tickling his peaked nipple or the fuzz of his abdomen, and the wave of his orgasm ebbs away. Then, he’ll return with scraping nails and a twisting wrist until he’s on the cusp yet again.

He can’t even think about teasing himself now without dropping his head back to thud helplessly against the door.

Instead, he sweeps his tongue messily along his open palm, extending to the tip of  each finger, and wraps his hand around his erection, the heat of the blood pumping under his skin smoldering. His hips twitch chaotically until he can brace his heels against the ground and his upper back against the stall, forcing himself to meet the rhythm of his fist.

His arms and hands are still shaky from his workout, so his fingers begin to spasm with the force of his grip. His free hand balled into a fist, teeth cutting sharply into his knuckles, he moans when a cramp seizes his right forearm and his fingers slip away as they collect precum.

Lips tingling when he lets his jaw fall slack, Eric strokes himself again with his wobbly fingers and gasps. He doesn’t have the patience to teeter on the edge of his orgasm now, especially not when there’s a room full of his teammates a few dozen feet away. He brackets his left hand around his other fist, and the moment his fingers weave together around the slick skin, the game is over.

He’s only distantly aware of the little breathless noises echoing in the cubicle while his hips rock up into his clasped hands. He lifts onto his toes and tips his chin toward the ceiling when the wild thought occurs to him that it could be Jack’s hand tangled in his, jerking him off in the locker room. The size is all wrong, but Bitty knows from the few precious times he’s felt them on the scruff of his neck or the ball of his shoulder that Jack’s palms are soft. This far gone, delirious with pleasure and thinking of nothing but the image of Jack prone on the chair, ass round and right there for the taking, it’s easy to let some of the details blur.

A phantom body presses along Bitty’s front, urging him to pick up his pace to the point that each down stroke slams his triceps into the door of the stall. He imagines Jack’s captain voice telling to hurry up, to wheel faster, that he’s beautiful (or at least, his goal was), and the construction of his fantasy is so intense Eric hears a second cadence of harsh breath over the roar of blood in his ears.

Muted whimpers vibrate in his throat; his mouth hangs open, working aimlessly. When he comes, jacking himself until he spurts over the sides of his hands and onto the grimy floor, Bitty takes the first breath he’s managed in at least an hour. He blinks his eyes into focus, banishing vague shadows of a familiar chiseled face from his line of sight, and surveys the damage.

If he moves his hands very delicately, he’ll be able to avoid getting any come on the dark fabric of his shorts. He can just wipe himself down with some toilet paper, clean up the most incriminating puddles on the floor, and he can wash his hands in the sink like nothing happened.

Like —

Like he didn’t just get himself off in the locker room, pathetic enough on its own, thinking about his famous, handsome, older, rich, straight friend folding himself over standard exercise equipment in an only incidentally provocative fashion.

“Oh, I can’t believe I…”

Eric would like to bury himself in a cave somewhere, but Betsy ranks slightly higher above baking over an open fire on a ramshackle tripod. He decides to brave the rest of the world again.

His clothes pulled back into their proper places, parts concealed with appropriate modesty and the most damning evidence circling the drain, he blinks hard twice in succession and slides the bolt open.

Immediately thereafter, eyes trained on the gritty tiled floor, he walks smack into the chest of one Jack Zimmermann, hockey center and recent adult fantasy.

Bitty bounces limply off of him, feeling a kind of hollow disbelief when Jack reaches out by rote to stop him from swaying off balance. Eric schools himself into a sort of casual coolness that he will never feel again, prepares to bluff his way through this just like he bluffed his way through middle school, and steps back to look up at Jack.

He just about dies when he processes the look on Jack’s face.


	2. Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack must look almost as bad as he feels, because Shitty's hugging him before he can even say, "I think I fucked up, man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has five endings to choose from. you only have to read one to maintain continuity through the final chapter, and which one you choose is irrelevant. each ending stands alone and takes place in lieu of the other four.
> 
> (i personally recommend reading all of them. just like. get frickin rekt bruh)
> 
> québécois translation (yes, just the one) provided via hovertext and in endnotes.

Jack can’t just turn off the conscientious captain trait now that he’s finally managed to pin down all the minutiae that escaped him his first two years. He’d done fine with the bare minimum, but now he knows his team, and he watches out for them off the ice just like he should’ve done from the start.

So, when Bittle looks like he’s trying to pull both arms out of his sockets just to avoid the embarrassment of asking for help, Jack steps in without thinking twice about it.

He’d do the same for any other teammate, no matter what Shitty seems to think. Bitty’s the only one small enough for Jack to lift like this; he’s so compact in a way unlike anyone else he’s played with that, while Jack could bench Shitty or throw him over his back and do laps, he doesn’t have to do much more than square his shoulders before he’s ready to get Bittle airborne.

And then, it’s just that Bitty doesn’t have a spotter the way the other boys do. None of his exercises are intense enough to require it, and no one else on the team would be getting a decent workout if they spent weight day paired up with him anyway. Jack’s only doing his duty as captain and, yes, as a friend, when he keeps an eye on him over the course of the next quarter hour. Bittle’s capable, of course, and Jack isn’t anticipating anything, but if something does go wrong he’ll have been ready.

He’s not so committed to his personal ruse that he won’t admit he’s showboating a little. Hyperextensions are a good follow-up to deadlifts, but the ode Ransom wrote during his frog year to Jack’s “intergalactic ass, a supermassive booty that exerts its own gravity,” which Holster had set to music was inspired by the maneuver. Jack isn’t above playing the hand the universe deals him when that hand is the chance to flaunt his best feature a few meters from Bitty’s face.

He feels like shit after a few reps, though. He’d thought Bittle was only taking a break between sets, but Bitty’s hands are unsteady, and he’s grimacing sharply while he shakes out his muscles. The studied attention he pays to the pull of his joints makes Jack wonder if he hasn’t hurt himself.

Jack’s concerned, dipping forward again, measuredly bending at his hip. When he releases, he can feel the exhaustion start to make his abs quiver and he grunts. That’s when he hears Bitty squawk something unintelligible and make for the lockers. He looks distraught as he goes, moving at such a clip that Jack wouldn’t be surprised if he were going to be sick.

“Jack, what’re you doing?” Shitty demands when he notices Jack’s abandoned the machine.

“I’m just checking on Bittle.”

Chowder hums nervously and elbows Shitty’s knee from the bench. Shits gives him the same wide-eyed, disbelieving look he gave when Jack told him three years ago he’d never smoked pot.

“You — man, I don’t think —” It’s strange to see Shitty fumbling for words. “How about I go check on him?”

Nodding enthusiastically — bordering on unnervingly — Chowder lets loose a stream of general consensus before Jack turns on his heel, effectively cutting him off.

“I’ve got this. You two keep at it.” Jack’s not happy with how sharp he sounds, but if Bitty’s hurt himself, this is time wasted that could be better spent. He stalks off and only catches snatches of them whispering: “There was definitely a tent, bro,” “What are we gonna do?” and, “Lardo’s gonna be pissed she wasn’t here.”

Keening bounces off the walls, muffled and breathless but too loud for Jack to ignore. He catches sight of Bittle’s sneakers in the last stall, annoyed beyond sense that he would come and hide after hurting himself instead of getting help just out of embarrassment. If Bitty doesn’t know by now that no one on the team really cares that he can’t defy physics and lift what guys nearly a hundred pounds heavier than him can, there really is no hope for him.

Arm outstretched, he skids to a halt when Bitty hisses and thumps hard enough against the stall that Jack’s sure he must have just collapsed.

“Bit —”

The latch clatters in the lock, metal clanging in tandem with the sudden pounding tattoo of a body hitting the door. Jack’s words wither into nothing while his thoughts give him whiplash trying to make sense of all the information he’s taking in.

Bitty’s facing away from him — his ankles are flexed, propping him up and pushing him onto his heels, calves straining. He’s obviously using the stall door for some kind of resistance, and if that weren’t confirmation enough Bitty murmurs, “Mmm, nngh, oh, oh!” in the universal, under-the-breath mantra of masturbators everywhere.

Jack can’t say why he stays except that he’s shocked into forgetting how to walk away. For a second, all his senses deaden — his ears feel ready to pop like he’s approaching peak altitude; he’s technically looking at the black speckled paint an arm’s length in front of him, but he can’t really see it. Every nerve ending sparks with the same sharp, rolling burn he feels whenever his uncovered skin hits warm air after being out in the Québec winter.

He’s completely deprived of his senses until he’s acutely aware of hearing his own name spluttered and bitten off with urgency that makes Jack’s heart quake within his ribs, desperate for the sound. Blood fans across his face, rioting under the surface of his skin. All the particles of his body are ready to rocket away in every direction, held together only through the magnetic force of his arousal. It feels like a living, writhing thing in his gut, gaining potency by the second.

His dick pulls harsh and suddenly against the fabric of his shorts, and he could almost scream at the irony if he weren’t ready to scream at the tug of the fabric snagging hypersensitive foreskin. For sanity’s sake, he yanks the waistband away from his stomach and sighs as his erection rises. Jack can hear Bitty scrambling around, so he lets himself have only a moment’s more respite. After a breath, he presses his hand against his dick with gritted teeth and traps it between the elastic of his band and his abs. If he adjusts his shirt the right way, it won’t be totally obvious that he’s popped the day’s second boner.

Jack’s paralyzed with indecision, waiting with dread and completely contradictory, fevered excitement for Bittle to finish.

He should really leave. He should leave and do some low-impact cardio that will get his blood flowing to more appropriate parts of his body. Or he could duck into the other toilet to avoid being caught listening in like the kind of voyeur he apparently is with the added benefit of not torturing himself with the image of what Bitty looks like after he’s rubbed one out. Either option is better than standing there like a caught fish with a nasty case of priapism, but he can’t seem to gather the will to move.

 _Just get a grip and do something,_ crosseur ! _1_ Jack thinks venomously, but the stall door swings open and Bitty stumbles almost drunkenly into him.

It’s reflex by now to steady him whenever he’s knocked off balance — granted, it’s not usually because Bitty’s crashed into him — but it’s never been such a bad idea.

Jack looks down and is met with the most fake casual smile he’s ever seen, set in a face lit up vermillion with eyes so wide Jack wants to blink for him.

Bitty’s lips are bitten practically raw, the indents left by his incisors sinking into his lip a transfixing, bruised purple. It hadn’t helped him keep quiet, but Jack is thunderstruck by the possibility that that was quiet, relatively.

He really can’t help what he does after that.

Ending: Ignorance is Bliss

Ending: Too Late to 'Pologize

Ending: Variations on a Theme

Ending: Nonverbal

Ending: All's Well

**_Ignorance is Bliss_**

It would have been so easy then for him to do the brave thing. There’s not much plausible deniability involved when you pop a boner listening to your teammate fuck his fist in the locker room toilet, after all, and if Bitty weren’t trying so damn hard to look innocent by making unnerving eye contact, he’d have seen through Jack’s slapdash tuck-up already.

Even if Bittle doesn’t feel the same way (which specific way eludes him, except that he knows he wants Bittle in his life, in his home, and, at this specific moment, in his pants) it could be so nice to get one of his secrets off of his chest. There’s no one Jack cares about who would judge him less than Bittle, except maybe Shitty and Lardo, but even those two would give him a hard time about it at first. If Bitty didn’t care about him as anything other than a friend, though, that would be the end of the story. No chirping, no interrogation.

No chance for Jack to entertain hopes of weekend visits in Providence or having an unspoken place to stay when he comes back to Samwell for a night or two.

“All right, Bittle?” he manages, words coming out harsh with the afterburn of his thoughts.

Bitty’s smile slides away, and he takes a few steps back. His eyebrows slope down at the outsides.

“Uh — well, I. Yes, of course! Why, did you need something?”

Jack wishes he had pockets to hide the white-knuckle clench of his fists, but as it is even moving is off the table for fear of bringing attention to his crotch. His body hasn’t yet gotten the memo that the adrenaline pumping now isn’t the kind that ends with an orgasm.

“You just ran off. I wanted to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”

Dropping his face to the ground, Bittle shifts his shoulders noncommittally and shuffles over to the sinks. Jack squeezes his eyes shut while Bitty lathers up his hands.

“No, I’m fine. Just got a little queasy. Overdid it on the pull-ups, I think.”

His voice is fragile and too casual. Jack hates it.

“I thought that might be it,” he lies. “Take ten before you try anything else today.”

He doesn’t close his mouth right away. His jaw hangs slack stupidly, and he traces the curve of his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. It corresponds exactly to the spot where Bitty’s teeth have left their imprint on his own mouth.

“All right. Thanks, Jack.”

It’s a dismissal, one as cold as any he’s heard in their more tumultuous times. Bitty’s shoulders are squared, his back to Jack, but even in the mirror, Jack can’t see his face.

Obviously, Bitty’s avoiding him, so he won’t make anything harder than it needs to be.

“I’ll see you back out there,” Jack grunts. He doesn’t wait to see if Bittle answers him; he just turns on his heel and hopes some time on the stair-climber will clear his head.

Bitty never comes back out.

**_Too Late to 'Pologize_**

“I didn’t mean to listen to —” Jack blurts out.

More than one person has told him he’s got terrible conversation skills. Kent told him once that if he opened his mouth one more time while they were in bed without the intention of putting Kent’s cock in it, he’d tell Bob who bottomed.

Shitty tried to coach him on how to at least acknowledge his own awkwardness. He’d said it could be endearing, but Jack’s only ever managed to get as far as “Sorry, I know I’m awkward,” and hear “Yeah…” back before the given conversation dwindled.

Bittle’s cultivated, unconvincing suavity falls to pieces right away. The lilt of his smile falls away into an appalled ‘o,’ and he seems to cave in on himself, shoulders curving inward.

“Oh, lord, you heard? How long were you —” Bittle can’t finish the sentence, but neither can he bring himself to pantomime getting himself off, giving up after a few hopeless gesticulations toward his crotch.

Jack buries his face in his hands and grumbles. He takes a few seconds, buying time to think by looking anywhere but at Bittle and sweeping his hand across his jaw.

Finally, he huffs, “Not — I mean, I don’t know? Not very long? Does it matter? I’m sorry.”

“Does it matter?” Bitty cries, hands grabbing at the longer hair at the crown of his head in disbelief. “Does it matter? Lord, Jack, what did you hear?”

“Jesus! You want me to repeat what you said?” Jack isn’t far from tearing out his own hair. Instead, he scrubs his hands down his overheated cheeks and turns his gaze upward for strength. The discolored, warped tiles don’t offer much, but they’re better than looking at Bitty.

“No, no, you’re —” Bitty begins hastily, marching over to the sink and scrubbing furiously at his hands. He’s so thorough Jack can hear the moment he stills. “Hold on; what I _said_?” he asks, timbre edging into the hysterical.

Jack winces and his cheek twitches with a grimace.

“Well, you know, just normal… things.”

“Oh, my God! No! Not normal things! Normal things are _noises_! They’re not things you _say_! You said you heard me say something; you wouldn’t’ve used that word if you just heard, you know. Things.”

“Bittle, c’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

Bitty glowers and folds his arms across his chest.

“Jack Zimmermann, you tell me what embarrassing thing I said, or so help me, I’ll call your mother!”

He can just imagine that conversation — _Hello, Mrs. Zimmermann, your son won’t tell me what he overheard when he listened in while I was getting myself off. I just thought you should know how inconsiderate he’s being._

_Mama, he said my name. Is there a more polite protocol?_

“Sorry! Fine! You said a name. It’s not a big deal, and I didn’t mean to listen, so let’s move on, eh?” Jack blurts desperately. He can tell he’s given the game away, though, when Bitty’s jaw drops and all the blood drains from his face.

Bittle’s always been an easy blusher and between his cheeks — rosy from the cold — and the faint freckles that dust the bridge of his nose when he’s gotten too much sun, Jack’s used to seeing his face alight with color. This pallid, horror-struck, gawping Bitty is like a totally different person.

His mouth parts, lips just millimeters apart but hanging motionless for nearly a full minute, before he says, “I said your name out loud?”

Jack knows that what you think about to get off isn’t a reliable indicator of attraction.  The first time he heard Shitty’s bedframe slamming against their shared wall, he’d pistoned into his fist, practically resentful that he was adjusting his own sleep cycle for this. He’d sure as hell been thinking about Shits, but wanting to kick his ass wasn’t the most amorous thought he’d ever had.

He’s afraid to step toward Bittle, body still tense with lingering arousal, so he mirrors Bitty’s posture. He slouches and crosses his arms, praying it makes him look smaller the way it makes Bitty look microscopic.

“You’re fine, Bittle. Shit happens, and I didn’t mean to —”

Bitty snaps, “Yeah, I get that you didn’t mean it. I’m gonna go back to the Haus.”

He storms over to his locker, shoving things at random into his duffle — things Jack isn’t sure add up to any functional set. He sees a single sock, a jock, and a roll of tape among the cascade.

“Hey, I’m sorry.”

Bittle wheels on him and flings his bag to the ground. The locker clangs shut, making Jack wince, but Bitty doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Could you please stop apologizing for the most embarrassing moment of my life?”

“But what should I —”

“Nothing!” he yelps, looping the strap across his chest and tugging the tail of his shirt down low. “Don’t say anything. I’m going back to the Haus. I’ll make up my hours another day.”

Every atom in him rebels against the prospect of letting Bitty out of his sight when he’s so perturbed. It’s in his nature to look out for his team, and his being so ornery even though Jack’s apologized several times is unconscionable. He toys with the thought of catching Bittle’s wrist when he passes by Jack’s side, but he slips away too soon.

Bitty takes the air and the vitality out of the room with him when he flees, leaving Jack bereft. His outstretched fingers clasp around empty air and he grimaces at the empty doorway.

**_Variations on a Theme_**

Like any good player, Jack knows his weaknesses. He’s as emotionally cognizant as a beaver, he’s as forgiving as a Yukon winter, and he’s as smooth as the ice on a rink after triple OT. If he has any hope of surviving this encounter, he’s going to need to play off his strengths.

His strengths include obscure twentieth century North American trivia and hockey, so he’s not gifted with diversity. However, he’s probably one of the best centers to ever play the game and if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s how to put on the pressure when he feels backed into a corner.

“Sounds like you might’ve hurt yourself there,” he chides, grinning with all the bravado he can muster while he’s still half hard and considering curling into himself on the floor.

Eyes wide as saucers, Bitty splutters, “Uh, I’m sorry, you — did you… come again?”

The heat of his embarrassment is palpable, a flush radiating in waves toward Jack as his cheeks veers toward puce. Bitty tiptoes backward away from Jack, skirting the corner of the toilets and aiming generally for the counter.

“You made a hell of a dash back there, so I came in to check on you. From all the noise you were making, it sounds like you could’ve pulled something.”

Bitty probably squeaks — one of his peculiar complaints that reminds Jack of a squeezebox more than anything he’s ever heard from another person. If he does, it’s muffled by two consecutive, dull thuds as Bitty slaps the counter with open palms.

He isn’t sure why suddenly he can’t deliver a chirp without sounding like an incorrigible flirt, and his libido isn’t thanking him for this strategy any more than Bittle is, but so far Jack is the only one aware of the precum gathering on his shirt. Keeping things that way is his priority. If he angles his body the right way against the far wall, he might be able to balance casualness with essential boner camouflage.

“Didn’t sound too pleasant. If I’d known how hard you were working yourself, I would have done something about it sooner.”

What that is supposed to mean is entirely up to the discretion of the listener, because Jack’s intent was to say that he’d have broken up Bitty’s party, but it definitely sounds like he’s implying he’d have joined in.

Water gushes from the sink, drowning out another swallowed yelp, and Bitty rinses his hands and his face feverishly. Jack waits until the automatic faucet shuts off before he digs in one more time.

He meets the reflection of Bitty’s hunted, wrecked eyes in the mirror and smirks, saying, “Work on your form for next time, Bittle. I can’t have you moaning about me every time we pump iron.”

That, it occurs to Jack, although brilliant, was crossing a line.

Bitty’s face crumples, huge eyes welling with tears, and Jack would give all of his considerable fortune to take it back. Without even pausing to grab any of his things, Bittle marches resolutely through the outside exit and lets the heavy door slam shut behind him.

**_Nonverbal_**

He parts his lips, laving the delicate, chapped skin with his tongue before his mouth goes completely dry and he won’t be able to so much as swallow. Some sort of explanation — anything that might justify his spying and stupid staring — needs to be forthcoming. The problem is that every word he’s ever known is gone. The second Bitty’s body presses into his with its compact lines and limbs, graceful even in abject shame and sending nerves sparking like firecrackers, it depletes both lexicons he’s spent twenty-four years building.

His fingertips trace goosebumps on Bittle’s arms, following them thoughtlessly toward Bitty’s wrist as they develop, and Bitty smiles anxiously up at him, and Jack doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to be doing. His dick is diligent in trying to remind him, but as urgent as the reminder is, he can’t seem to frame up any kind of response.

“Uh. Hey, Jack. You can let go of me, you know,” Bitty mumbles, tugging away from Jack’s grasp. It registers as very wrong, but the choreography of clenching his teeth and maneuvering his tongue while somehow breathing all at the same time is too much to process. “Stop,” is too difficult; “come back here,” is unthinkable.

Slackjawed isn’t a great look for anyone, but Jack can only hope he resembles his mother enough that he isn’t a sight. Every part of him that’s come in contact with Bitty is throbbing with energy, and his only conscious thought is that Bitty thought of him while he was so desperately horny that he jerked himself in the locker room during team time.

“You haven’t… You haven’t been there long, have you?” Bittle asks bashfully. Feathery, honey-colored lashes and coffee brown eyes. Very gradually, Jack is relearning his adjectives, but, “ravishable,” “touchable,” “kissable,” and, “fuckable,” don’t constitute any kind of sentence he’s heard in polite company.

“Uh,” Jack grunts. It’s reassuring that he can make any noise at all. His head twitches from side to side, and even though he’s lying impressively without saying anything at all, he’s glad when some of the tension in Bitty’s fake smile wanes.

He’s less glad that, apparently, relaxing by degrees means Bitty is going to realize that Jack is at sea.

“Are you alright? You look a little funny.” Bitty scrutinizes his face, and Jack hopes that whatever Lovecraftian horror is playing out across his features is captivating enough that Bittle won’t look anywhere south.

“Ah, hmm.”

He’s doing better with variety, but Jack can’t seem to nail down any real words yet.

Frowning, Bittle washes his hands without looking away; it’s impressive how he keeps their eyes locked: first turning his chin over his shoulder, then whipping his head around to stare into the mirror.

It’s amazing how well Bittle rebounds. It shouldn’t be surprising, given that Jack’s spent the better part of two years teaching him how to get over a hard check, but an emotional rebound isn’t something Jack’s ever been good at. Bitty’s practically back to normal already, tutting while he rips off a length of paper towel to dry his hands.

There’s nothing to look at but the length of Bitty’s forearm, wiry and finely haired. They’ve become more defined since Jack started him on his new regimen, and the mental transposition of Bitty’s arm extended in front of him to his arm pressed along his front, hand sliding under his shorts is too easy.

“That’s it, mister, you look downright ill,” Bittle marches right into Jack’s space. Bracing himself on one of Jack’s shoulders, he leans all along Jack’s front for balance while he stretches to press the back of his hand to his cheek. His fingers are clammy from the water, but Jack isn’t without ideas for how to warm them. “You don’t feel too warm. Not for someone who just wrapped up a workout anyway.”

“Whu —”

Considering his past, it isn’t the worst moment of his life when Bitty sinks back onto his heels and trails his hand down Jack’s stomach. It only seems like it when Bittle absently brushes against the speedbump the head of his dick creates, laid flat as it is against Jack’s abdomen.

Bitty flinches, hopping back; Jack wishes his erection would take the hint and go the fuck away, but it persists even when Bitty gawps at him with his cartoonish eyes.

“You — You’re… You said you weren’t there long!”

Jack doesn’t bother throwing out another string of nonsense syllables. He shrugs, miserable, and mourns when Bitty hides his face in his hands.

“Good Lord, I need to leave.”

This would be the perfect time for him to recover his ability to speak; “come back here,” is a more desirable turn of the phrase than it is improbable, but Jack slumps mutely against the white walls instead. No one’s answered his prayers in ages, but Jack offers an entreaty to whoever will listen.

“Fuck,” he says, when Bitty abandons him without another word.

**_All's Well_**

The unhinged, carnal impulse to spin the two of them around while he has a hold on Bittle and drape himself all along his body shakes through Jack. History books should take note of the effort it takes him just to snatch his hands back when Bitty’s triceps nestle in his palms. Taking a step back rather than closing the space between them should qualify as a wonder of the modern world.

Jack hasn’t been so aware of his own lips in ages. He doesn’t think of them much unless they’re dry and cracked to the point of bleeding during the season. The thought of tracing the edge of Bitty’s cheekbone with them possesses him, though, following the warmth of the blood under his skin down his chin, along the bright pink splotches of his neck and down the planes of his chest. There’s nothing more important to Jack than memorizing the texture of Bitty’s skin with his mouth and his tongue.

“Bitty,” he rasps, and Bittle’s pupils blow so wide Jack can hardly tell where they end and his irises begin. His slight torso sways in toward Jack, and his priorities shift from kissing, and kissing, and kissing to addressing the helpless twitching in his shorts.

“Jack, are you—” he catches himself mid-trip (really, it had been Jack’s fault for releasing him so abruptly), with his fingers curled against Jack’s forearm. The second it dawns on Jack that these hands have just been intimately acquainted with Bitty’s dick, he extricates himself. His only other option would have been to explain the sudden wet patch on his belly, and that isn’t Jack’s preferred option.

Bitty whispers a quiet oh, and Jack doesn’t reflect on it for a moment.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, shifting around Bitty. His thoughts are caught in a tug-of-war between teams _Bittle just came calling your name and put his hands on you_ and _Stop thinking about it, or you’ll come in your goddamn pants_. “Gotta piss.”

He hides in the sanctuary of Bitty’s stall, locking it with a clamor. Athletic conditioning has done a lot for his self control, but it’s a struggle not to touch himself until Bittle’s receding footsteps fade under the noise of the slamming door. He bides his time by staring absently at a streak on the floor. It’s a few centimeters from his foot, but once it registers that it’s come, sloppily wiped away, he unravels a handful of cheap toilet paper.

Jack consciously replicates Bittle’s stance, yanking his waistband down and hiking his shirt up to his armpits so the novelty of the air against his erection provides a measure of relief. Raking his bitten-down nails through the coarse hair leading to the base of his dick, he squeezes with his first two fingers and his thumb to keep from making a mess of himself.

He slides back the foreskin and lets the precum coat his palm, doing his best not to obliterate the crumpled paper in his left fist. He closes his hand over the head of his cock and swivels his wrist, locking his knees so his hips don’t jerk and interrupt his rhythm.

Once Jack is reasonably sure his hand is slick enough not to give him blisters, he pumps in earnest, bringing the tissue to his slit to keep things neat.

He’s too lost in the haze of pleasure to register that he’s smelling Bittle’s body wash, or that he’s looping the moment Bitty screamed, Jack’s name apparently so pervasive in his thoughts that it came unbidden to his lips. He surrounds himself daily with Bitty; both with Bitty’s presence but also little reminders of him like his pies, his headphones, or his absurdly small shorts mixed into the laundry.

This being engulfed by Bitty’s smell is new. He’d had the slightest taste of it when Bitty’d used the wrong shower back in his first week in the Haus, but Jack hadn’t known his crush from his sock drawer back then. It didn’t drive him crazy or send him spiraling into fantasies of waking up each morning with his nose tucked in the nape of Bitty’s neck.

“Fuck, fuck,” he cries when his core tightens and his toes curl. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, sweat and frustrated tears leaking onto his cheekbones, and works himself through his orgasm.

It wasn’t as clean as he’d hoped it would be, but the janitor will like him in the end a lot more than he likes Bittle.

Hot water doesn’t do much to wash away his inchoate sense of shame, but it does wonders for the semen collected in the webbing of his fingers.

Jack wouldn’t say he’s hit a new low. He was a wreck in Juniors, and Parse indulged him more often than his should have, but even at his least inhibited Jack doesn’t think he’s ever been reduced to washing jizz off his hands in a public bathroom.

“Is the coast clear?”

Shitty peeks around the swinging door.

“What do you want?”

“Bits forgot his bag and shit. He asked me if I’d bring it back with me.”

There’s a clear accusation in Shitty’s tone, but Jack doesn’t bite just yet.

“Bittle’s not here?” he demands instead.

Shitty strokes his chin while his eyebrow rockets up in interest. Jack resigns himself to the worst leg day he’s ever had as Shits says, “Nah, he bat-outta-helled about five minutes ago. You got any idea what that’s about?”

Jack must look almost as bad as he feels, because Shitty’s hugging him before he can even say, “I think I fucked up, man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Wanker/fucker.


	3. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bro. They fucked.”
> 
> “Rans, you’re so full of shit. They obviously haven’t fucked yet. Why would Bitty be embarrassed if they fucked?”
> 
> “I don’t know, maybe he’s got a hair trigger? Maybe he’s into some kinky shit? I don’t want to think about it too much, to be honest.”

Jack fucked up.

Everyone knows it was Jack, because Bitty doesn’t fuck up unless it involves fainting during practice. Ransom and Holster have been playing PI for a solid week trying to put together a narrative, but all they’ve got so far is that whatever catastrophe there was, it happened on weight day.

Shitty won’t help because he’s an asshole; Chowder knows something, but he’s gotten scarily good at lying (they’re going to have to have words with him if he keeps pulling this cagey shit). Nurse and Dex are as clueless as them, and Ollie and Wicky are basically Ken dolls.

(Holster thinks that’s probably literal, but Ransom’s seen their junk in the showers. Everyone looks in the showers. It’s not weird, okay?)

Bitty hasn’t done much out of the ordinary with the glaring exception of avoiding Jack. If anything, their little spat made it clear just how much they’d buddied up. Bitty doesn’t actually seem to do anything that isn’t homework or baking when Jack isn’t bullying him into extra practice or getting coffee at Annie’s.

It makes sense that they’d pair off; after all, with Lardo back, Shitty’s been under a serious time crunch, and Holster and Ransom have the defenseman bond that drift compatible dreams are made of. The frogs are still able to juggle their three-way friendship, but more and more Chowder lets Nursey and Dex chill on their own so he can spend time with his girlfriend. It was only natural that the odd men out would stick together.

Not that Jack and Bitty aren’t their bros for life, but sometimes you need a best bro.

Jack’s been pining. There’s no better word for it. When he comes into a room Bitty’s already in, Bits will pop out and pretend his cookies are burning or that he promised he’d Skype his mom. Jack’ll pout and stare out whichever way Bitty left, and then he’ll pull his phone out of his pocket and compose a text for the better part of a half hour.

Jack isn’t savvy enough to know you’re supposed to keep your phone on silent when you’re around other people, so they all hear if he decides to send it. So far, Ransom has him at about a ten percent successful send rate, but Holster swears it’s higher. He thinks Jack must be saving some of them and coming back later for further rounds of edits.

“Bitty. Don’t think I don’t appreciate this,” Ransom starts, glancing out of the corner of his eye nervously for Holster.

“I’d believe you if you ate your slice. Key lime pie is your favorite, isn’t it?”

Bitty frowns and turns back to the counter to finish cleaning.

Point of fact, key lime pie had been Ransom’s favorite — two weeks and three pies ago. Now, it’s just a citrusy reminder that there can always be too much of a good thing.

Holster jumps to his defense, saying, “I think Rans is just worried you’re…” before he flounders, eyes wide.

“I don’t want you to blow off your homework, man!” Ransom fills in. He and Holster take a breath in sync when Bits smiles fondly at each of them in turn. If he thought they were lying, they’d be getting the mombrow by now.

“That’s nice of y’all, but I’m ahead right now. I stayed in Saturday and did all my homework for the week.”

Ransom must have heard wrong.

“You? Did what?”

Holster frowns.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Eric Bittle?”

Bitty laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing. He laughs like he didn’t wait until the night before a midterm paper was due to check out his reference text from the library last semester, and Holtzy and Rans glance uneasily at each other.

Then Bitty’s phone rattles in its speaker and he unhooks it to read the incoming text. The Stepford grin vanishes, and Bits all but slams his phone onto the counter.

Ransom tilts his head toward it.

Holster points to himself, to Bitty, and then lifts an inquiring brow.

Nodding, Rans holds up five fingers and brings them down one by one.

Bitty’s scouring pans in the sink like his name is Inigo Montoya and each piece of cookware has six fingers on its right hand, so the exchange is lost on him; when Ransom’s last finger closes to his fist, Holster strolls over.

“Here — you wash, I’ll dry?”

There’s no reason for the morose twist of Bitty’s lips, and they file that clue away for later scrutiny while Holster grabs a mug out of the sudsy water.

“Holster, that’s not clean yet,” Bitty sighs.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll just —” Holster catches Rans’s eye and fumbles subtly, sending Shitty’s _I like my coffee the way I like my men; Silent_ mug toppling to the floor. Bitty watches dispassionately while Holster makes a fuss, and it’s the prime opportunity for Ransom to slip behind them and snatch the phone from off the counter.

Really, they should have considered collecting evidence from the beginning.

Ransom flees, listening to Holster splutter something about obviously being more of a burden than a help, and they pore over their prize together in the attic.

“Ah, fuck. What’s Bits’s passcode?” Ransom mutters, having tried Bitty’s birthday, Mama Bittle’s birthday, and his class year and been shut down each time.

“Give it,” Holster says. He types 9481 and they’re in. “Beyoncé’s birthday.”

Bitty has eighteen texts from Jack, and he hasn’t replied to any of them. They scroll back to the last time Bitty messaged Jack, and the string of unanswered texts paints the saddest unrequited love story either of them has seen outside of _Les Misèrables_.

 

 

> _I’m sorry Bottle_
> 
> _Bittle*_
> 
> _Bitty please._
> 
> _Will you please talk to me?_
> 
> _You have nothing to be embarrassed about._
> 
> _I’m sorry if I made things worse._
> 
> _Bittle, talk to me?_
> 
> _I get that you’re upset, but we live in the same house. You can’t keep ignoring me._
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _Can we talk about this?_
> 
> _Coffee at Annie’s?_
> 
> _It’s really not that big a deal, Bottle_
> 
> _I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re worried about_
> 
> _I didn’t tell anyone, either_
> 
> _Please let me apologize_
> 
> _Did I even do anything wrong?_
> 
> _Sorry, I know I was an ass._

 

 “Bro. They fucked.”

“Rans, you’re so full of shit. They obviously haven’t fucked yet. Why would Bitty be embarrassed if they fucked?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s got a hair trigger? Maybe he’s into some kinky shit? I don’t want to think about it too much, to be honest.”

Holster frowns at the phone, considering whether or not he should mention that he’s heard Bitty’s edging nights enough times to know he’s definitely not the kind of kid to blow his load too soon (the bottom bunk comes with its perils, the poorly insulated floor chief among them).

“We’ve gotta _Much Ado_ this shit,” he finally says.

Ransom frowns.

“Is that another one of your gay-ass movies?”

“I think about throwing you out the window sometimes, bro. Just so you know.”

Their plan itself is actually so simple it would probably happen without their interference. They’re just shuffling the process along. That’s the only way those sorts of plans ever work.

Bitty’s in the kitchen, working with a grater over a bowl (“Limes, Holtzy, where is he getting so many limes?”), and Jack is going to meet Rans for a two o’clock tee time after his lunch with a recruiter.

In reality, Holster and Ransom are going to trick him into the kitchen and bar all the exits until someone talks about their feelings. What Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him, unless he thinks he can wrestle them both at once and win. That might hurt him.

“Need any help, Bitty?” Holster yells from the couch, poised to pounce at any moment. It’s ten ‘til, and the clock is winding down.

“Not from you, thanks!”

Holster scoffs, “Rude!” as the front door swings open.

“Hey, Ransom. You’re not dressed.”

“Sorry, Jack. I’m gonna have to kick your ass on the green another day. Something came up.”

Jack lets the straps of his backpack slide off his shoulders, and Holster ambles into the entryway of the kitchen in case Bitty can hear them over the sound of the electric beaters.

“What’s Bittle making?” he asks, wary.

Ransom grins. “Why don’t we go see?”

Jack doesn’t resist when Ransom yanks him by the arm into the kitchen, but his face has gone all pensive and he’s basically stopped breathing in the meantime.

“Oh, good. You’re both here,” Holster booms over the whirring. Bitty starts, sees Jack, and his eyes flick to the basement door. Before he can slip away, Holster blocks his path. “I think it’s time you two had a chat.”

“Holster, this isn’t any of your business.”

“Maybe not, but Jack’s been moping for a week and a half, and depressed Jack is worse than pre-season pissy Jack by a longshot.”

Ransom pats Jack’s shoulder.

“Sorry. It’s true, though.”

“Have you at least read my texts?” Jack bursts, ignoring Rans. It’s probably for the best that they forget they have an audience, anyway.

When Bits actually looks at Jack for the first time in ten days, Holster and Rans grin across the kitchen at each other. They do for a millisecond, at least, before tuning back in to the soap opera.

“Yes. You can stop sending ‘em now.”

Jack’s face pales, and Holster kind of wants to punch Bitty. He’s never wanted to before, and it feels wrong. It’s a little bit like rooting for Tom when he’s chasing Jerry.

“Will you talk to me, at least?”

Bitty glares, but it’s fragile.

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

With a huge, shoulder-heaving sigh, Jack inches forward.

“Bitty, I’m so sorry —”

The scowl on Bitty’s face sharpens, and even Ransom’s a little intimidated.

“Will you stop apologizing? I’m having some kind of existential crisis over here, and you won’t quit trying to make it all about you — just like you do with everything else!”

If they were telepathically linked, Holster’s and Ransom’s thoughts would echo with identical _Ohhhhhhh_ ’s. As it is, Holster mouthing “Damn,” and Ransom hiding his shocked moue behind a clenched fist say it clearly enough.

“What does that mean?”

Bitty pauses, eyes flickering to both the kitchen’s exits, but he powers through.

“I’m a gay guy on a men’s team — the only one — and I got caught touching myself by the teammate I was thinking about. Who wouldn’t want me off their team after that?”

Holy shit.

“Bitty, don’t be an idiot,” Jack murmurs. It’s a good thing he’s got that fond, gentle lilt to his voice, because he’s actually being pretty rude.

Holster’s having a hard time watching the quaking of Bitty’s shoulders and not doing something to cheer him up. It’s even worse for Rans, who can see his chin trembling.

“I just proved every homophobe’s point about gays in sports, and you’re telling me not to be an idiot?”

“There’s a difference between spying on your teammates and having a crush on one of them,” Jack reasons.

Bitty drops his humiliated face into his humiliated hands and mumbles, “It’s different when you’re straight.”

“Maybe it is,” Jack concedes, “but I wouldn’t know.”

Bits’s head snaps right back up, and he sniffles. He doesn’t reply, though, just gaping at Jack in astonishment.

“You’re not the only gay guy on the team, Bittle.”

Holster whistles high and quick and jerks a thumb behind him. If they can get into the basement, there’s a door that leads outside, and he’s betting they can get down there and come back in unscathed through the front door.

Rans shakes his head and nods toward the den. It would be way easier for Holster to cross the kitchen. One of them will have to anyway; Holtzy’s just being chickenshit.

Maybe there is some telepathy between them, because he’s barely finished thinking just how big a pussy Holster is before his eyes narrow and he marches toward Ransom. As he passes them, Jack wraps careful arms around Bitty’s shoulders.

Rans wants to see how this whole thing plays out. They’ve known since their frog year that Jack isn’t straight, but this thing with Bitty is a total surprise.

He’d love to see if this hug is a _let’s be gay together in solidarity_ moment or a _let’s be gay together in sexual congress_ moment, but Holster is bearing down on him and his only hope for safety is if he can climb into his bunk before Holtzy catches him. He’ll just have to leave the rest to his imagination.


End file.
